He had seen another one inside which I was to take. So we changed places and I went in.
As I searched in the rubbish, finding the rucksack and even a toothbrush, I suddenly saw, among all the things that had been left behind, the body of a woman.
I ran back to my hut to collect all my possessions: my food bowl, a pair of torn mittens “inherited” from a dead typhus patient,
and a few scraps of paper covered with shorthand notes
(on which, as I mentioned before, I had started to reconstruct the manuscript which I lost at Auschwitz).
I made a quick last round of my patients, who were lying huddled on the rotten planks of wood on either side of the huts.
I came to my only countryman, who was almost dying, and whose life it had been my ambition to save in spite of his condition.
I had to keep my intention to escape to myself, but my comrade seemed to guess that something was wrong (perhaps I showed a little nervousness).
In a tired voice he asked me, “You, too, are getting out?”
I denied it, but I found it difficult to avoid his sad look.
After my round I returned to him. Again a hopeless look greeted me and somehow I felt it to be an accusation.
The unpleasant feeling that had gripped me as soon as I had told my friend I would escape with him became more intense.
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